Relapse
by Phate3092
Summary: Reid makes a final decision about how to deal with his feelings.
1. Chapter 1

It was dark, the neon glow of an open sign flickered and glittered at the end of the block. There was only one street light at the corner, buzzing. There were no cars at this time of night, every apartment had extinguished their bedside lamps and the city was at rest. A man, wearing a army drab coat about two sizes too big, rested against the lamp post, looking at the car parked at the end of the street, a car much to nice for the neighborhood. The door opened, a slender figure approached the man, and under the flicker of the neon he recognized him.

"My, my," he said, grinning up at the man emerging from the gloom

"Its been far too long hasn't it?" his smile was sinister, Spencer hunched against some invisible chill.

"What do you have?" Spencer asked, his expression unreadable in the pale lamplight.

"ah, pick your poison." the man continued smiling unpleasantly up at Spencer.

"you know." he said, straight faced. "I have 50" he handed the cash over and in a moment two vials were pressing against the inside of his pockets. Quite a weight, indeed. And on the slow and steady walk back to the car, their weight became more and more noticeable. He drove past the man on the corner, hoping that the cars headlights would burn him to cinders.

He knew that soon the sun would be rising soon as he pulled into the garage and pressed the button to close the door, he considered the weight in his pocket which seemed to grow heavier and heavier with each passing moment. He shoved a hand into his pocket and ran the vial between his two fingers, the glass was still a little cold and it was dark in the garage. The musty smell reminded him of his mother's hospital and he silently fumbled for the car light, a empty void expanding under his ribcage. In his bag was the syringe he had commandeered from a pharmacy earlier that day, when he was still trying to talk himself out of it. Saying he was just getting prepared, just in case, even though he always knew that this moment was inevitable from the moment he stared at Jennifer and said "well I thought about it"

Rolling up his sleeve on auto pilot and going through in his mind the thousand hour conversations he had had, trying and trying to avoid this very moment he was trapped in, each lie building up in his blood stream until his ears felt red and his heart was beating against his ribs as if it was going to leap out and run away. He tried to calm himself down as he filled the needle with the amber liquid, darkly thinking about the first time, about Emily's funeral, about his first meeting, about that one year chip that was sitting on his dresser. Spencer tried in vain to convince himself that at that moment he could walk away, that he didn't have to loose all his hard work and all his time. And even as he was thinking that though, the needle came down into his skin and then, nothing.

When he awoke the sun was full in the sky, and the car was hot and the leather seats sticky. He had pieces of hair stuck to his face and a needle sticking out of his arm. Gently removing it with a wince, both regret and pain, his stomach sank into his shoes as he got out of the car. He knew he had something to do today, something important he thought, his brain still fuzzy around the edges. A vague sense of horror seemed to float above his head as he peeled the clothes from his body and left them strewn around the house, his muscles aching and throbbing.

Something cold and soft was all he wanted at that moment, in the house filled with daylight and the smell of sweat and entropy. He went to the bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror, pale and sad with dark circles from the lack of sleep. As cold water splashed on his face, he caught in the corner of the mirror a dark purple bruise on the inside of his elbow. He was full of despair.

Across the street from Rossi's house, the drugs didn't hit him as hard. Though for a moment after getting out of the car again, he became so dizzy he had to place a hand on the car to steady himself. And walked, hunched, itchy, to the door of the mansion. A funny place to be, he thought, a faint hollow euphoria pouring through his veins.

"Sorry I'm late" he said. They smiled up at him.


	2. Chapter 2

Feeling slightly sick and slightly under the influence, Spencer stirred his pasta with his fork, across the table were smiling faces and laughter but it was all disconnected, he watched them, the fuzziness in his brain made him struggle to comprehend what exactly they were laughing at.

"How do you like your spaghetti?" Rossi asked.

Spencer looked at him.

"Its fine" he said. The words seemed to linger in the air. Please don't ask me anything else, Spencer thought vehemently, please. He was obliged, and the evening went by in some kind of haze, time passed both very slowly and very quickly and as soon as it began it was over to Spencer, who had spent most of the evening pretending he was listening and smiling. His eyes were immeasurably troubling.

Outside walking to his car, Spencer paused as he heard the door creak across the street. "Spence?" Jennifer asked, he turned to face her. He knew he wasn't going to make it out of here without this moment. He sighed on the inside of his mind.

"Look, Jennifer…" he started, thinking about what to say.

There were a million things he could say, but none of them floated to the top of his brain, now just brushing the end of intoxication. Was it bad to say he didn't want it to end?

"I know I said some things this past week, I didn't mean it." he brushed a finger over his nose, the itch was starting to grow stronger.

"Its okay Spence, you have a right to be upset with me…" she was looking into his eyes, she had noticed. They seemed empty, his eyes were filled with apathy, but his voice was soft and heartfelt.

"I'm not upset anymore." he said, definitely, though inside his head it was followed by …as long as I'm not sober.

"Okay Spence, I just wanted to make sure you were okay," Jennifer said. A spell of dizziness came over Spencer and he steeled himself against it. This time he would control it, he thought.

"I'm fine" he said slowly. Turning and getting into the car, she watched him drive away. Trying desperately to convince herself that he really was okay, that the look in his eye hadn't betrayed some other, hidden, secret.

Spencer's sleep was restless and plagued by nightmares.

"Choose." the empty voice of Tobias Hankel commanded him, in a field strewn with the bodies of his team mates. "Choose" the disembodied voice commanded again, and he was surrounded by numbers, images, words, all swirling and blending together. "Choose" the voice was so loud it rang in Spencer's ears even as he awoke. Bathed in sweat, the digital clock on the dresser said 3:00.

The sun was shining bright through the blinds, creating little stripes of light across the bed sheets, it was Sunday. The echo of the voice rang in his ears, his mind filled with some unexplainable emotion that he found it hard to shake. Impossible maybe, another voice interrupted.

"Don't tell me it doesn't help." the voice coaxed. It was not Tobias Hankel's voice again, but the voice of a long lost memory. It was his own voice. Taunting and begging. He picked up his phone, the number was on speed dial he reminded himself. The number had been left on speed dial ever since the first time he had called it. He pressed the number 7.

His own voice, after the one in his head, seemed odd and disjointed.

"I need something," he spoke, without introduction. "When can you be here?"

Receiving an answer, Spencer picked up the Forensic Anthropology book he had left on the bedside table two weeks ago and flipped through it. He resigned himself to waiting, the itch was almost unbearable and it took all of his energy to ignore the ache in his muscles and the overwhelming feeling of despair left over from the nightmare. He waited on baited breath for the doorbell to ring.

He liked to call him 7, because a name would make him sound like a friend or a neighbor. And that's not what 7 was, he was a leech. He preyed on the weak and innocent, he destroyed peoples lives, and he supplied Spencer with the tools for his own self destruction. Of all the thoughts which swirled around in the back of Spencer's head, this was the most reoccurring. Self destruction, now not because of a distant monster in his head but because of pure unadulterated surrender to it. He tried his hardest to ignore the pounding thought that attacked him, and the symptoms of withdrawal that were almost swallowing him alive.

There was nothing he could do but wait. Change clothes, shower again, wait. Breathe, read, wait. Drink coffee, write a letter to his mother, wait.

The doorbell rang. The waiting was over.


	3. Chapter 3

He enjoyed things that would destroy him in the end. He shouldn't be, passed out under the feather comforter, half asleep and half awake, breathing heavily, waiting for the oblivion of sleep. A calculation was going on in his brain, "how long can he keep up this act before it falls apart like the last time?" he didn't know. No quantifiable ratio came to mind. 50% of all addicts relapse, his brain repeated, 50% of all addicts relapse. The feeling of tiredness came over him as the drugs allowed him to sleep, he and he slept, dreamless, like a stone in still water.

Waking up before sunrise, he opened his eyes to the darkness just before dawn. The red light from the clock illuminated the room with its dim glow. His arms and legs were incredibly heavy, weighing him down like everything on his mind.

This was the part of the day when he had to go through the motions, to wake up, get dressed, go to work. Witness the true capability of mankind, its true evil. He felt like sleeping forever.

With reluctance he got dressed, slowly but surely, and grabbed the half filled pill bottle off his bedside table. His hands felt warm and clammy when he drove to work, and in the building intermittently he felt the room sway as if a earthquake had just shook the room.

In the haze of a sober hour the team was presented with a new case, sitting as the first page of the case file was a hand written letter, the note to the media was fine print, the patterns and curves Reid studied closely, without looking up or around.

"Good morning" jj said as she entered the room. Spencer did not acknowledge her, he felt the sudden pang of regret. He left the room without excusing himself.

In the bathroom his hands were shaking as he poured a handful of pills into his hand, how many did he need, he wondered. 8? Too many. 6? Not enough.

We swallowed dry, they left a bitter taste in his mouth. Who would help him this time? He didn't have the PDSD excuse to use anymore, he would have to teach himself how to bury these problems under his skin, to hide away from everything.

The day passed, a dull uneventful day filled with mindless banter, and every step that Spencer took, and every breath he breathed, became harder and harder to execute. Ho long would he keep this up? He wondered. And each time he caught one of his fellow team members looking at him he wondered if they knew. Ethan's words were echoed in his mind over and over again.

As he sat in his car, in the parking garage with a needle in his hand, he thought "this will tear me apart, it is already." and he knew that it would. A feeling of nausea washed over him, but was it the drugs or was it the fact that he hated himself so much.

He didn't even know what he was running from anymore. His phone was ringing, distant and hard to hear.

"Hello" he said, in a voice that was not his own. "ill be right there" he said. He couldn't let the team know that three hours after he had 'left' he was still sitting in his car in the parking lot. He made the decision to wait.

Twenty minutes he waited, filled with dread at the thought of going into that building. Again he wondered if he could walk away from this job, and again the answer was no. this place he was meant to be, his home, it was feeling more and more alien to him.

Twenty minutes, two cups of cold coffee, six pills, three distressful looks in the rear view mirror. Searching his own face for some sign of the internal struggle. There was none. So sign something was terribly wrong, no indication he could see. And while he was desperate to hide his pain, he also wished someone would catch him here, before it grew anymore. It was the calm before the storm. The feeling grew because he knew what came next.

Dr. Spencer Reid strolled into the room like it was any other day, carrying his brand new cup of coffee. Jennifer handed him the new case file, told him they were leaving in forty five minutes. Caught his troubled glance and looked away. He couldn't tell whether he was still angry with her or if he was just in withdrawal. "for a genius, that's just stupid" Ethan's disembodied voice reminded him.

"Reid you can start with the geographic profile." Hotch said.

Spencer's eyes were closed. "Reid?" Hotch said again.

His eyes fluttered open. "Oh… yeah, yeah,"

Morgan was watching him with concern. "Hey, you okay?"

Spencer avoided eye contact when he said "I'm fine" but the inflection in his voice told Morgan so much more than his words did. Spencer resolved to not nod off while in the presence of his team members, he pulled a worn leather book out of his satchel.

No one would think it suspicious that he was reading, would they? He found himself reading the same three lines over and over, his mind wandering off into different lands, to Los Vegas, to New Orleans, even to Los Angeles. All around, he couldn't focus. He was waiting for the plane to finally land, and it never did.

Jennifer asked him if he wanted to play cards, "No," he said "No thanks" snidely, she looked hurt vaguely. He was starting the come down, in his mind grasping on the last straws of his high. He had been on the same page of his book for five minutes.

Maybe, it would work better if he tried working. He read through the case file again.

"Nothing like paper work, hey Reid?" Morgan said, bemused.

"Yeah, yeah sure." Reid said. He vaguely remembered lifetimes ago when he had said paper work was relaxing. Was that a different world? When was that exactly?

He couldn't remember, and that in and of itself was disturbing. His mind was wandering again, his muscles starting to ache. He relearned very early on, maybe even that first night, to hate this cycle. The cycle he had forgotten about in sobriety was again upon him. He sighed.

"Did you say something?" Jennifer said.

"No, I didn't say anything." he replied. The sound of his own voice was foreign to him, a harsh corrective tone. He wanted to apologize but then quickly resolved not to.

Once the plane touched ground and Spencer could sink into his lumpy hotel room mattress, he was satisfied. The idea of being around the team, or anyone in particular, dissatisfied him. The ceiling was a malt grey color, he noticed patterns and fades in the worn stucco that lead to the conclusion that this stucco had been hand installed. A knock came at the door.

Buried under the influence, jet lagged and tired, Spencer called, "Come in"

The door creaked when Jennifer opened it.

"Spence…" she began, he flinched. "are you still upset with me"

"No, one pasta dish can solve all my problems" he remarked.

She shook her head. "What can I do to make this up to you Spencer?"

He stood up to face her. "What can you do?" he scoffed "That's right, what _can _you do?"

"Obivously you can lie to people you care about, but I don't know what you can do to make it up Jennifer. _I don't know._"

She looked hurt, she turned. "I said I was sorry Spencer. I _am_ sorry." she looked at him again, over her shoulder again. He was still standing there with a terrible look on his face, one she didn't know or didn't remember. She left without another sound, and in relief Spencer sank into the mattress again, without bothering to shut the door behind JJ.

Its not that he didn't feel sorry, he told himself, there were bigger things to deal with here than her worrying about if he was still mad. He needed help. He needed something.

When he felt like his arms weren't too heavy to move, he shut the door. Rolling up his sleeve to look at the purple bruise festering in the crook of his elbow.

"For a genius, that's pretty stupid" he repeated out loud this time. Racking his brain for anything he might have read about how to make bruises go away. He came up empty.

He rolled his sleeve down, picked up his jacket and left the room. There was always something to do besides stare at the ceiling.

Spencer was three hours late to work the next morning, but arrived with the completed geographic profile for the killings. The team members each looked at him quizzically.

"Sorry" he muttered, looking at the floor. "I was going to help you with that." Emily stated as he set up his work on the bulletin board. "Really, I don't need your help" he stated. She stared at him. There were mistakes, Spencer noticed them and tried to fix them before anyone noticed, but he was sluggish today. A night spent walking through the town un noticed had left him with a uncharacteristically slow brain. As Emily stepped in to help him he said again bitterly "I don't need help, okay?"

She stepped away, resigned. He hoped no one else would bother him today.

Emily had gone to Hotch later that day and told him about Reid's sudden change in behavior, leading him to call Spencer aside.

"What's wrong Reid?" he asked, Spencer stared at him

"Nothing, I'm fine." he knew Hotch didn't have time to hear him whine about his problems, there was a murderer to catch.

"You look like you haven't been sleeping well" Reid looked at the ground. "I told you I'm fine." he snapped. "really" he tried to correct his tone. They couldn't know. They wouldn't know, he was determined. A sleepy kind of determination settled over him.

"Reid, if you don't want to talk to me about it, that's fine. I know your upset. Talk to someone please" Hotch's tone was softer. Spencer hoped he hadn't had some kind of realization about what was wrong. "Fine."

Avoiding eye contact for the rest of the day, Spencer sank into his blues. He resolved to avoid eye contact for the rest of his life, and to ignore the probability that he wouldn't succeed.

...

remember to review! i spent all night writing this chapter so the end is me working on fumes :)


	4. Chapter 4

When the plane took off to take them home, Reid was starting withdrawal. His arm shaking, muscle ache seemed to make his very soul shudder with everything. He focused his entire being, all his energy into curling up into a ball in one of the air plane chairs, elbows next to knees and hands next to head, to stop the shaking to shut out the light and to maybe finally sleep. His entire body hurt.

He remembered before, in the darkness of his first addiction, when he would have panic attacks worrying about getting his next fix. He remembered the meetings and the voices and everyone. A overwhelming, crushing, brutal feeling of failure settled down upon his brain. He had ruined everything, he had failed at things he said he could accomplish and fallen back into old habits that he promised he wouldn't fall into.

He felt sick, mostly. The incredible feeling of sick, consumed him, made him vulnerable.

As far as he knew each team member had only thought Spencer was tired, or maybe a little angry about everything that happened. Yeah, he felt angry too. There were things, that happened in Spencer's life, that he knew he would never forget, and Emily's 'death' was one of them. He remembered crying, parking up the street from his dealer and wondering, this cold heavy weight pressed against his chest. He felt hollow, his entire body hurt. He wanted to die.

He drove straight home, unspeaking, unmoving, almost zombie like. Praying, because he knew he wasn't maintaining, that no one would notice that he was completely messed up. His chest felt like it had ripped a hole in it, and he didn't understand what he could do to make it feel better. He couldn't remember anything, his brain fuzzy on the edges.

Stripping off his sticky clothes and sitting on his shower floor, he prayed. Forgetting about science for about two seconds, he prayed. The cold water hitting his back like a torrent of rain. He dreamed. He wondered. He tried to recall anything he had read, seen or experienced in great detail, since he had started with the drugs again.

There was nothing in Spencer's brilliant mind that could help him, alone, catatonic, crying in the shower, nauseated and obscene. He was almost ready to give up, the pain of his half real memories were crashing down on him with the water. He wanted to forget. He wanted to be numb forever. And all this was impossible.

At some point in the night, when he didn't notice, he had woken up on the bathroom floor and stumbled blindly into his room. Without turning on the light he had found his pill bottle and emptied it into his hand, in the darkness he had swallowed dry and wiped a lonely tear off his cheek. It was a beautiful moment when he felt the drugs kick in and he slept finally and deeply. Almost dead.

Because there was no work on Saturday, Spencer was relieved when he woke up at almost 12. A shorter day was less hours of consciousness he would have to make it through. About ten thoughts wandered through his head all at the same time. The phone rang.

He ignored the abrasive ringing noises, no sounds to please his ears this morning, or maybe afternoon by now. A empty fear creeps up in his soul.

"Hello?" said the voice on the other end of the phone. "Hello" Spencer creaked.

"This is john, from the meetings" the voice fluctuated "We missed you last night, are you alright?"

Spencer gritted his teeth. "Yeah, I just don't feel well."

"oh well, alright, just checking on you." he sounded concerned "I hope you feel better"

"Thanks." Spencer cringed

"Stay safe okay. Alright, talk to you later"

The concern of others weighed heavily on his mind, was anyone worrying about him? How he had been acting? How could he bear this burden for much longer, it was beyond him. Every crank in his mind turning. that's when it was decided. And for a moment he picked up the one photograph of his teammates and stared at it, forlorn. There was nothing for him, he had failed everyone. The crushing blow of his defeat, a symbol of everything he lost.

He was a failure. This time he wasn't a useless pawn in a psychopaths game, this time he had made a choice. A choice.

And he knew, not by turning on the light, but by feeling, where the vile was in his sock drawer, and in the darkness he stumbled into the living room with that in his hand. With the needle and the cotton balls.

A feeling of immeasurable silence came over him as he sat on the couch. Looking out at the street lamp and the people walking along the sidewalk. He felt so incredibly alone.

What had he done, he wondered. How had he become this monster, the one who took his own escape and put it over everything else.

"Don't say it doesn't help." a voice echoed from somewhere.

And his own forgotten voice, echoed back through time saying "please, I don't want it, please." and he wondered how things could change so drastically, so suddenly. From a helpless victim of someone else to a helpless victim of himself.

He pushed down on the plunger, lying on the couch, catatonic again. Loosing consciousness, losing hope. He prayed again, for no one to come and save him, for the empty room to consume him. He prayed and his thoughts wandered. He cried, and he hoped for a savior. Nothing came, no answers, no knocks on the door. Nothing.

As the light faded and Spencer passed out, the sounds of the cars on the street were his only lullaby. He thought as the light faded. If only someone would help me.


	5. Chapter 5

originally, this chapter was going to be the last chapter, but i am stuck in this part so i just posted what i had.

* * *

><p>When Jennifer handed him the case file, her hand brushed against his. His icy fingers shook ever so slightly as he lifted the papers into his desk. How could he be so stupid, how could he fool himself into thinking no one would notice. He didn't make eye contact.<p>

When Morgan said good morning, he mumbled his reply. Spencer reassured himself. No one can possibly know, the track marks lying under his sleeves. The little glass vial in the inside pocket of his coat. no one could know what he had been doing. Right?

Everything ran on auto pilot, keyboard clicking and hands shaking. The ambient noise of that room. The silence that settled over his brain, the great waves of apathy and guilt that washed over him. There must be no outward signs that something was wrong. Wouldn't someone have said something? wouldn't someone do something?

The day dragged on, like smoke each second that passed evaporated into the air. How did he get to work this morning? How did he get this paperwork? He signed his name at the bottom of the page, his signature looked bizarre and unfamiliar to him.

When Prentiss asked him if something was wrong, he replied with the only thing he could think of. "I have a headache." he said, slow and monotone.

She looked quizzical. She did not reply. The day moved forward. Slowly, moving. Spencer stared at the dirty walls, he rubbed his heavy eyes. He looked at the floor, the carpet pattern danced provocatively.

How long had it been since he slept? Had he lost weight? Did he have dark circles under his eyes? He could pray no one would notice, he could wish to be under the influence and just not care about what anyone saw, or knew, or wondered about.

A singular thought pressed against him, to be forgotten. To forget. The only thing he wanted, and he stood.

Tall and swayed by some sort of imaginary breeze, he walked to the bathroom. Everything on auto pilot, he sat there with the drugs in his hands. What should he do? Would they notice? A cruel abandon settled over him.

No one will say anything to stop you, his internal monologue ran, no one will care about you.

No one cares if you are sober or high, messed up or okay, in control or out of it. The voice chanted. No one cares, no one cares.

But the drugs covered that voice, with the memories. He remembered when he was a boy, he remembered Ethan's voice. "I know what its like when someone isn't well."

The apathy cooled. When he walked back to his desk, everyone was gone. It was time to go home. A long period of silence followed. It was silent on his walk to his car, it was a silent drive home, it was silent when he opened his door. He didn't make it to the bedroom, instead he sat against the door.

The dark room was foreboding, the floor messy.

He closed his eyes and everything slipped away.


	6. Chapter 6

Once, Spencer thought, I killed a man. Once, Spencer thought, I made the decision to kill myself. Not with a gun, but with this slow poison. His thoughts were slow and steady. Coherent, a feeling he had long forgotten, it settled in on his brain like a fog.

It was Sunday morning, the sun was shining brilliantly outside. The grass was green and brilliant, sparkling with dew. Spencer opened his eyes slowly, the sunlight painfully assaulted them. All around him was the evidence, clothes and coffee cups littered his entire house. On his bedside table was a small vile half filled with clear liquid, he propped himself up on one arm and stared at it. His phone vibrated loudly, startling him. He muttered to himself, grabbing the vile in one hand and stumbling to the bathroom. His head throbbed painfully. He rubbed his eyes and sitting in the half gloom of the windowless bathroom, he shot the liquid into his arm. A methodical process he had repeated over and over again, like a half remembered dream from years ago. His phone was buzzing again.

When the calm had settled down over him and he was at peace, he finally read his text messages. One from Morgan read "wanna have brunch?" but Spencer did not reply. He was much too tired for that. Crawling back into bed to rest with his sweet apathy, he closed his eyes, realizing that the pain in his head had subsided. He allowed thoughts to run in and out of his head like nothing. He half dreamed and half remembered odd things, eating at a restaurant with his mother, dead bodies, the sound of gunfire. It was a marvelous sunny day, sluggishly Spencer opened a window. The slight chill from the open window awakened the nerves in his fingers and gave him goose bumps. He wondered what today had in store for him. There, lying under his covers, listening to the dull beat of his heart. It seemed to repeat the same words over and over, unknown and unfelt. He closed his eyes and moved his lips to recite his dissertation, see this would reaffirm, he could maintain, he could feel the cold air rushing in, touching him like a loving mother. I am living in a sleepless dream, he thought. And the dream was inescapable, going on and on and never really touching anything. He didn't move for a long time, a calm rush had descended over him and his thoughts ran, on and on and never really settling on anything. His phone vibrated again. This time Morgan's text message read "isolation wont help anything" What the hell? Spencer thought, had he given some sign? Had he done something wrong? Some kind of deathly knowledge creped in, he tried fruitlessly to keep out the understanding. Someone knew. Someone found him out. Now there was no escape from them.

He shut his eyes again, his brain argued with itself. For somewhere Spencer wanted to talk, to tell everything, to explain himself, and the other part wanted to escape, to forget, to be completely empty and void of feeling of knowledge. He wondered briefly which side would win, before falling back into his catatonic oblivion.

Upon waking and finding the sun hot and steady in the sky, Spencer wondered how long he had been unconscious. The blankets stuck to his skin in the heat, the chill of the morning now gone from the world, Spencer wondered if it had been real at all or if it was only part of his eternal dream. His heart beat was still loud in his ears, he peeled himself from his bed and retreated from the room, cursing under his breathe for leaving that damn window open.

He felt for a moment like he might be going crazy, but nothing about the room seemed out of place. Had he put his affects in order for some reason, in the haze of some forgotten hour? It seemed likely. He picked up his phone, and there was that text message staring him in the face. He tried to think of something to say, anything to say to Morgan. Nothing came to mind, his feelings began to wage a war with his rational mind once again. I should open up to him, I shouldn't open up to him, I should, I shouldn't, he went back and forth and again. Staring at the blank new message screen, no words magically appeared, nothing to say.

After a long time of staring at the screen, he put the phone aside. A large leather bound book of poetry beckoned to him, he began reading.

Morgan, at the same time Spencer was staring at his phone in conflict, was waiting for a reply. He didn't really know if his comment would get to Spencer or not, but he knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong with Spencer Reid. Morgan recalled the previous Friday, he had caught Spencer in the bathroom staring unmoving into the mirror. He caught a hint of fear, and a quiet depression coming off Spencer in waves.

How stupid did Spencer think they were? Morgan wondered, to think that he was hiding whatever was bothering him. Of course there was the anger, over losing Emily, and the depression. Morgan wondered why Reid hadn't replied. Why didn't Spencer care about his concern?

At some moment, as the sun was setting, Morgan stood up from his pre-recorded football game and drove to Spencer's house, determined to confront him.

There was no answer when he rand the doorbell, no answer when he called "Reid?" a fear crept up the back of Morgan's neck. He thought maybe he heard the distant sound of screaming, haunting cries of pain. Morgan hit the door with his shoulder violently, bursting into the room with his gun in his hand. "Reid?" he shouted. No answer, he heard a faint sobbing noise, strangled. He pushed the half open bedroom door open slightly, and asked "Reid?" for a third time there was no answer. Spencer was laying on top of the covers in the fetal position. He looked up at Morgan with his eyes rimmed in red. "get out." Spencer said, calmly. His voice caught as though he had been crying for some time now. Morgan did not move from the door way, the rest of the house had been clean, but Reid's bedroom was a mess. Books, clothing, empty bottles and scientific journals littered the floor. All over were disorganized piles of boxes and odd things that Morgan could not identify. Taped to the wall over the bed was a hand drawn map of Quantico, accurate to a t.

As Morgan's eyes went around the room, that was when he spotted the three empty vials laying haphazardly on the bedside table. "why don't we talk about it?" Morgan said gently. Reid did not look at him this time, he stared straight ahead, letting one of his arms lay over the edge of the bed. "I don't want to talk." said Spencer, his heart said he was lying. "like I said earlier, Reid, isolation never helped anyone. don't shut me out. I can help you."

"you cant help me," Spencer said bluntly, still avoiding eye contact. "no one can help me."

Morgan stepped over a pile of books and sat on the edge of the bed. "what is this about Reid?" he asked. Morgan's voice was full of pity, but Spencer found no respite in it. "everything." said Spencer Reid. He moved away from Morgan, sitting with his back against the wall and his knees pulled up against his chest. He looked like a sad child, all balled up in a corner, afraid of the world. "how long have you been using again?" Morgan asked. Reid looked at his knees. "ten days, four hours, twenty-one minutes, 19 seconds… 20... 21...21" he trailed off. "why didn't you talk to me?" bemoaned Morgan, filled with the longing to save Spencer from his inner demons. To protect him. "there isn't anything to talk about…" Spencer's voice was hoarse. Morgan could see he had started crying again, but made no move to comfort him. "why don't you get out of my house" Spencer said forcefully, again. Morgan was unrepentant, he positioned himself there on the edge of the bed and pondered what to say. "why, Reid?" he asked, though deep inside him somewhere he knew the reason. "there is no reason." Spencer said, speeding over his words. "sometimes I just cant take it, I don't know, there's too much, I cant do it."

"your better than this, Reid" Morgan said slowly. "I know your better than this." Reid shook his head, looking down again. He was immeasurably sad.

"your right Morgan, I am better than this. I'm going to go back to my meeting tomorrow." he was calm, a cool silence settled over him. The sun was set by now, Spencer looked out of the open window at the starry night. Morgan nodded, and they both moved to the kitchen. Spencer made coffee and they talked about work and about Emily. About Jennifer's deception and about Spencer's migraine problem. Spencer felt mad, a crazed calm settled over him and he surrendered to it. I'm just along for the ride in this dream, he thought. Four hours, It took Morgan to take the ruse Spencer presented and swallow it. Four hours of mindless banter, Spencer quoted statistics and talked about sci fi literature. Morgan talked about Miles Davies and the New England Patriots. In Spencer's chest grew the incredible feeling of being dead inside, but as far as he knew the present company hadn't noticed his slow needy gestures or his drab syllabic way of talking. For four hours they sat in the murky room over their coffee cups, pondering. Finally Morgan got up to leave, saying goodbye in a hesitant way, he promised he would call and make sure Spencer got to that meeting tomorrow. He made Spencer promise there were no more drugs left. Spencer promised, he resolved to never relapse again. The silence was almost unbearable by the time they finally said goodnight.

When Morgan left, Spencer sat in the kitchen, watching Morgan's presence fade into the back drop. He resolved, calm settled over the room. The silence shook his ears. We walked back to the bedroom and fell into a deathly slumber, deeper than any he had ever known before.

Dr. Spencer Reid did not show up for work the next day, he did not answer any calls or texts or emails. It was as if he had fallen off the edge of the planet itself. Morgan, under some kind of moral complex, was compelled to keep Spencer's secret. He excused himself at lunch and drove to Spencer's home. When he arrived the front door was unlocked, and unanswered. Morgan let himself in, calling softly Spencer's surname, and yet this was all in vain. As he turned the corner that lead into the kitchen, he saw in horror. Two brown loafers peeking out from the edge of the counter. There on the warm linoleum lay Spencer Reid, the silence seemed to have captured him at last.


	7. Epilouge

A blinding white light attacked his eyes as he opened them, a cluster of voices and beeping noises echoed around him. He shifted his hips slightly. Whatever he was laying on was unfamiliar and hard. He was cold. Cold.

"He's awake" he heard a voice say. A vaguely familiar voice, trying to identify its feminine tone danced around the outskirts of his brain. His head hurt, he moved his hand over his eyes to block out the light, not looking less white and more yellow, the warm inviting sunlight of a beautiful spring day. He imagined the desert of Nevada stretched out before him.

"I thought you were dead" he said. His own voice seemed to bounce around on the inside of his skull. Who ever thought a sound, unseen, could be so painful.

"I was in Paris. Do you remember?" Emily said, concerned. Remembered dreams and thoughts poured into his brain, painfully, he became aware of exactly where he was. This was a white room, a hospital room, but this time there was no Morgan eating Jell-O in the chair beside him. Instead Emily stood at the end of his bed, with her arms crossed in front of her chest and the same, serious, calm expression on her face.

"I remember." he said. Blinking hard against the light. "Please shut the blinds" Spencer whispered. His heart was pounding on the inside of his brain, as a million questions filled his head. He strived to remember what had happened, and as a whirlwind the image of his last action, the last bit of dilaudid in the vile, Morgan's visit, the feeling on the kitchen floor under him. A terrible feeling of self loathing consumed him. He felt his voice constrict and he whispered.

"so sorry… so selfish" Emily now standing by the window, looked over her shoulder at him.

"Its alright, Reid," she said, slow and simple. There was a unspoken love in her voice.

How wonderful and terrible was friendship, he thought.

"Just don't do this again to us."

He said nothing, shut his eyes and rolled his head to face the other side of the room.

A thought occurred to him.

"Where's my phone?" he asked, a fervor in his tone now. A new idea had struck him.

Emily handed him her phone, "Here, use mine." he dialed a number without opening his eyes to look at her.

"I'm at St. Marys hospital, can you come?" the voice on the other end said something Emily couldn't understand. "alright, ill see you soon." Spencer handed her back the phone. He avoided her piercing brown eyes.

Emily spent a hour with Reid, he didn't say much but that he was sorry. Over and over again he repeated it. She nodded, she gave as much compassion as she could give.

"Visiting hours are over." the nurse said. And Emily looked at Spencer, he finally looked back at her with his sad eyes. She said goodbye and she left. Spencer envied her for that.

It was very soon when he shut his eyes and dosed off, his body felt weak, his breathing irregular. He fought off the feeling of heartbreak.

"Spencer?" a voice asked, startling him from his slumber. It was night now, the street lights shown a green yellow glow outside the window. "im really glad you could come." Spencer said.

John nodded from the doorway. "its no problem" he said "not at all." Spencer sighed. "im sorry I dragged you out here. I'm sure you have better things to do."

"No Spencer, its not a problem."

Spencer looked at him, possibly wondering if he meant that or not. "I just don't have anyone that understands, I feel so hopeless."

"Don't beat yourself up Spencer, this happens to the best of us."

"I know, 50% of all addicts relapse." Spencer quoted, furrowing his brow.

"That's not important," John said, quietly. "What's important is right now. And I know you can be sober right now."

"I'm just so disappointed in myself." He mumbled.

"Its all in the past now." John reached and put his hand on Spencer's shoulder. "you start over again tomorrow."

Spencer looked up into his kind face, and almost smiled. "Right," Spencer said. "Just for today."

And john did smile down at him, "You can do it, kid."

A new kind of hopeful settled over Spencer, one he had forgotten in his drug haze. He thought about a thousand things at once. About his mother, about high school, about Tobias.

John sat down in the uncomfortable hospital chair next to his bed.

"You've got a second chance at life, Spencer. Now all you have to do is take things a day at a time and you can be happy again."

Spencer nodded. As weak as he felt in this moment, a happy memory came over him. The memory of the day he had gotten his year chip. The smiling faces, the cheers, the immeasurable feeling of accomplishment, incomparable to any degree he had received. Spencer settled into this memory. Everything was going to be alright.

The End.


End file.
